Mouthwash
by Post Reichenbach
Summary: Continuation from Glitterbomb. Sherlock and John come home and have to deal with some lingering awkwardness. COMPLETE!
1. Mouthwash

As we enter the flat, I find myself gazing forlornly at the hand which held a gun less than an hour ago. It seems to mock me in it's emptiness as I shuffle into the sitting room. A bullet could be obliterating my frontal lobe and with it all the awkwardness of the present situation. John walks in behind me as the survivor's high wears off and I'm stuck with grim reality.

"Uh, do you have any mouthwash I could borrow?" John asks the normally innocent question with a slight blush. I've skipped through Embarrassment and now I'm firmly in the land of Utter Humiliation.

"Unfortunately, no," I answer, hiding my face behind the coat I'm engaged in hanging up. God, I want to disappear through the cracks in the wall, the floorboards, anywhere. Turning around, I'm praying I don't meet his gaze. Please, John, do me a favour and be looking out the window or something.

"Oh, that's okay. I can manage." Nope, he's staring straight at me with a dopey smile plastered on his face. "I'll just go brush my teeth."

Vanishing up the stairs, he takes all of my composure with him as I start to pace around. I'm going to explode, and I swear the feeling is so real my flatmate's going to be picking bits of grey matter out of the carpet when he returns.

Wait…can I even refer to him as my flatmate after _that_? What kind of status does forced oral sex confer upon the relationship? Does it do anything? Fuck you, Moriarity. You just made me waste precious moments on a completely stupid chain of thought. Alright, I have to get over this, preferably before John gets back. He's obviously going to forget it ever happened, so I should just do the same.

Right.

To celebrate this burgeoning rationality, I scream at the top of my lungs into one of the couch cushions. At that exact moment, John comes back into the room.

"Are you alright?" He's clearly confused to see a man clutching a pillow to his face in the middle of the sitting room. Well, at least he can't see me flushing profusely….as long as I don't remove the cushion.

"Fine."

"Then, what are you doing?"

"Nothing. This upholstery should be cleaned soon."

"I see." He stares. Why is he _staring_? Fuck, John, you could be considerate and leave me to my mortification.

Yes, the man who has just given me a blow job should be more considerate.

I think it's a full minute before I realize firstly, that I'm laughing uncontrollably at the joke I've told myself in my head and secondly, that John is trying to guide me to sit down. Unbelievably, he actually seems concerned. I'd expect him to be packing his stuff and calling the police.

"Sherlock, I know we almost died. You have to get a hold of yourself." He manages to get me to sit down on the couch and he's next to me, eyes not leaving my face. I laugh again, this time at the absurdity of his words.

"Really, John. You should know that I've almost been murdered several times by now, by several different interested parties. I'm not exactly popular."

"Then what's - " The phrase dies quietly on his lips as the realization dawns on him. Seriously, where is that gun? I need it now.

Awkwardly, John opens and closes his mouth several times to talk. Searching for the right thing to say, I can actually track where his mind is going. A look to the mantelpiece; should he compare this with other cases? A glance to the kitchen; maybe he could say we're special and unique people and this is nothing in the ocean of our lives? A glare to the union jack on the chair: perhaps this is war and things happen that we all regret?

Finally, he sighs and shrugs his shoulders, giving up on all those options and going for what he's actually thinking. This might go very badly.

"Listen, it was nothing really. I mean, it was that or death and I did what needed to be done." Not bad, but I'm going to have to point out the obvious.

"Except it didn't have to be you."

John isn't quick to answer, and for the first time since I met him, I can't read his face. Then he laughs and I'm just confused. "No offence, but I can't picture you doing that, not even then."

"What do you mean?" Come on, Sherlock, for once stop now before this goes to hell. You don't have to know, _everything, _do you?

"I don't know." John doesn't seem taken aback by the question, as amusement still plays across his face, "it's just not in you, I guess. Or at least, that's what it seems like."

"But you thought I was gay when you moved in."

Now, I've embarrassed him and colour rises to his face, "Yes well, I didn't really know you then, did I? I didn't realize you were so repressed."

"I am NOT repressed." I snap, unable to control it.

"I'm sorry. I'm just saying that because…you didn't exactly take…ummm…plus after -"

"Stop, that's enough. I didn't need that kind of detail."

"Why are you getting cross? YOU'RE the one that asked."

"I didn't ask for THAT."

The last exchange is made with sneers and raised voices. John moves to get up, but pauses. Once again, I brace myself for a punch, instead I get grabbed by the collar and pulled closer. We're eye to eye and this is extremely uncomfortable. My gaze drifts everywhere as my stomach clenches, and I start to shake. What the fuck is wrong? I've been in worse situations, so why am I acting like a scared little girl? I wasn't even the one who got the worse part of the deal.

"This time, Sherlock, you are not going to be flippant and you are going to believe me." John's breath is on my face, hot despite the minty sharpness of toothpaste. "What happened was not your fault, and I am fine. We both did what we had to and I refuse to let some bastard wreck my life or yours. Agreed?"

Strange things are going on in me, and I'm sick with fear and other emotions I'm not even going to give the consideration of labelling. I'm struggling with a sudden speechlessness, that John notices and addresses by shaking me slightly.

"Agreed?" Impatient, and still too close for any kind of relief, he's not going to let go until he gets an answer. I'm trying to stammer something out, but my mouth is dry and my tongue is thick and this is wrong. There's something really wrong going on here, and I don't know what it is.

"Agreed." Managing to get that out, I lean back from John, attempting to get away. He doesn't let go. Why is he not letting go? Why am I not punching his head to a bloody pulp?

"Sherlock, you need to relax. It's alright."

I'm more actively struggling, but still he's got his hands on me and he's holding me in place. My heart starts pounding. My God, I can't breathe. What exactly is going on? I try to scream it at John, but all that comes out is a hoarse croak. The room starts spinning, my eyes go blind while wide open.

It's Moriarty he's back, he's clawing at me, he's trying to take me. I can't get him off, I can't talk, please, John, get him off.

I can't do it.

"Sherlock!"

My name reverberates in my ears, out of John's lips…Moriarity's…my brother's…Lestrade's. I'm kicking, and tearing, but he's there and he's holding me down with a strength I couldn't begin to imagine. I'm helpless and I'm pinned on the hard ground. My heart beats in my ears.

Then it stops.

And I stop with it.


	2. Heartbeat

Dr. John H. Watson. It's the name on my blog and my office door, but I'm definitely not feeling that it fits right now. I don't feel like a doctor. I'm too busy lost in a tide of panic. I'm flailing around like I've never seen anything like this before, when I've worked in casualty and a war zone.

My first clue that something is wrong is when he takes so long to answer one question and then doesn't answer anything else. Sherlock Holmes might ignore what he deems useless, but seldom leaves my questions unanswered - unless it's for the enjoyment of watching me squirm.

"A-a-greed." He breathes it out and seems to half choke with the effort and the response is old by at least a few seconds. It's now that I notice his face has gone a paler shade of white, and he's pitching sideways off the couch. I don't know what to do but hold on to Sherlock's collar and try to bring him back around.

"Sherlock!" Yelling is doing nothing. His eyes roll into the back of his head, and my stomach rolls along with them. I can't even think of anything else, except that I'm fucking terrified and I have no idea what's happening. I slide him to the floor, my hands fumbling to get a pulse. I'm a doctor, and it takes me too long to find it, and when I do it's fast; just too fucking fast. It's like he's somehow traded hearts with a hummingbird. No weird facial contortions though.

Thank God. It's not a stroke. The thought races through my mind as I hold him down because despite whatever's wrong, he's fighting me every step of the way. Pushing through the pain of having fingernails rake across my face and a knee connect with my side, I grab one thin wrist and then the other, then somehow manage to manoeuvre myself until I'm straddling his hips.

I let out a sigh of guarded relief. Hopefully, he'll calm down in a minute, the heart rate should come down and it will be okay. He may kill me for being on top of him, but it will all be okay.

No. He's suddenly gone limp. That's really not good. My appropriate medical response is to scream louder, hoping that somehow it will perform miracles and the goddess of desperate, barely competent army doctors will see fit to fly in through the window and revive my flatmate.

"SHERLOCK!" Before I consciously know what I'm doing, I'm ripping open his shirt. "SHERLOCK!" Oh my God, he's so damn thin. I can see the outlines of his ribs, and pelvic bone just visible above his trousers. It's like I've suddenly revealed the great detective to be made of nothing but some structured porcelain with a white sheet draped over it. There are obviously some muscles there, but they're light and subtle. Lithe.

My ear drops to over his heart. Oh, fuck.

I hear absolutely nothing at all.

My hands fly to his chest, and I begin compressions automatically even though everything in me is afraid of breaking some bones and doing him more damage. "FUCK, SHERLOCK, COME ON!" I'm still screaming in spite of myself, "YOU'RE A FUCKING BASTARD, YOU KNOW THAT?"

He's still not moving; my insides are turning to water and bile. John, you need some control, you can do this. Please, he can't turn blue, he can't die, not after all that. I hold his mouth open and press my lips to his, forming a tight seal for the air I'm delivering to his lungs.

One breath…and there's no response. It can't end like this, please, I don't think…I don't think I can accept it.

Second breath, and he's still, and I'm going through what kind of brain damage happens after the first couple of minutes without a pulse as I put my hands back on his chest. Please, please.

Suddenly, Sherlock shudders and coughs and I think that hoarse hack is the most beautiful sound I've ever heard in my entire life.

"Thank Christ!" I'm almost laughing with joy as the detective's eyes move underneath their lids and his head rolls on the floor. Putting my ear to over his heart again, I get an even better sound, his heart beat returning to some semblance of normal. All at once, it's like the world has colour again, birds are singing, and I'm ready to bake pies and dance with Disney-esque woodland creatures.

Getting up, I go to kneel back down near Sherlock's face. He's begun to moan a bit, and seems to be coming around.

"Are you alright?" Wow, Sherlock's right. I ask ridiculously stupid questions sometimes.

He doesn't really respond, but his eyes open and he shoots upright into a sitting position. Eyes darting all over the room, he seems confused and disoriented. Before I can say anything, he's also trying to get up and I know that's not going to go well.

"No, none of that!" I leap up to catch him as he trips over the coffee table and almost gives himself a concussion on top of everything else. Thank you again, gods of British doctoring.

"But-I-have to go-" It's clear by his face, that he doesn't know what he's saying, and that doesn't exactly surprise me, so I start guiding him towards his room, hoping he'll bend to my will. Just once. Please, just this once.

"No, you don't, Sherlock. You're fine." I try to say it in my most calming professional voice, but I'm sure I still sound like a panicky twat. He seems to crumple a bit under my words, and nods and I find myself internally flailing all over again. All the same, we _are_ moving across the sitting room, and he _is_ complying.

Then for no apparent reason, he stops dead in the doorway and turns shrugging off my hands. The look on his face stops me dead too. Sherlock's gaze is empty, dead, and expansive; his face drawn, and plaintive. There's some darkness there I haven't seen before, with none of his usual anger mixed in. What has Moriarity done? What have _I_ done?

This wasn't going to change anything. We were supposed to forget all about it and go on our merry little way, like I told him. Like I promised myself. I mean, it seemed like it was all going to be alright until a few minutes ago. As much of a master as I am at denial, this is too big and I've really hurt him. Why does that bother me so much? I've only known Sherlock for a couple of months, and it was his bloody case.

I hate myself for the selfishness of that thought as I look at my flatmate in the face, and the moment stretches out in front of me like a broken hourglass. What am I even doing here? Guilt, shame, and an urge to fix it all take possession of whatever logic I may have stocked up. I think back to the pool, the light splashed across his face, my lips on his, and before I fully know what I'm doing, I'm kissing him all over again.

He's close and he's alive, and I pull him into me almost forcefully, wanting to feel his heart beat with mine, feel him living. Oh yes, living! Sherlock doesn't move but doesn't pull away and I can't tell what he's thinking or if he's even coherent at all, I'm more concerned with feeling him alive in my arms, trying to absorb the emotion, and make him better. I can make him better, I have to.

All of Sherlock's weight slowly shifts into my arms, and for a minute I'm shockingly ecstatic, then I realize it's not any kind of reciprocation or acceptance. Once again, he's not moving, and I'm about to throw up from anticipatory fear as I lay my fingers across his neck. Good job, John, you saved him only to kill him again. Hippocratic Oath? What was that again?

Thank you God, there's a regular pulse, he must have just passed out. Alright, Dr. Watson, get a hold of yourself and get your patient into bed. Picking up Sherlock Holmes is like picking up nothing at all, though he doesn't really look like the Sherlock Holmes I remember from yesterday. He's changed and I've changed and I don't think this is going anywhere good.

I put him in bed and cover him up, but I find myself lingering in his room, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Taking a seat in a chair next to the bed, I give into temptation and a nagging piece of my previous panic. My hand reaches out and finds Sherlock's wrist and I sit back, contented with the beats, specifically their continued uniformity.

Sherlock's face is frozen in a neutral frown, as if even in unconsciousness something or someone has earned his disdain. Colour seems to slowly be returning to his face, though it will probably take some time before he'll wake up. I doubt he'll remember any of this come morning.

Allowing myself full blown relief now, I sink back into some uncomfortable thoughts. What am I doing, what was I thinking, and where the hell is this going? I shake my head. No, I've already decided I'm going to put this behind me, and that's what I'm going to do, damn it. _Especially_ now.

Why does that decision seem so wrong?

No, it isn't. This is about Sherlock and about what you can and can't tell him.

I tentatively take my other hand, and leaning onto the bed, place it on his forehead, pushing back a few stray curls.

You _can_ tell him to forget it, but you _can't _tell him that you never will.


	3. Afternoon

You don't have to be a genius to realize when your day has already gone to hell before it's even had the decency to start. It's sometimes as simple as a question which happens to be burning a hole through your brain upon dragging your reluctant eyelids open.

"What the fuck happened?" I groan, before I even raise my head off the pillow. I know the answer must be at least partially horrifying since I'm lying in bed with a ripped shirt and some very sore muscles. My head's also swimming with leftover fatigue. Despite all this, I'm able to roll out of bed with minimal stumbling and get to the sitting room.

John's in the chair, sipping tea and reading the paper as if he belongs there even though, judging from the light streaming into the room, it's the middle of the afternoon on what I assume is Monday.

"What are you doing here?" My voice causes him to start visibly which is also odd. I'm starting to not _want _to know what went on last night.

"Sherlock, I live here." He says after regaining himself but he's still not turning towards me. Although from this angle I can still see he looks tired, haggard even as if he hasn't slept.

"It's Monday. You work Monday from nine to four."

"I called in sick." His tone is guarded, and he's clearly not readily elaborating for a reason. Unfortunately, I'm really not in the mood for a rousing round of guess and no.

"Why?" Now I'm snapping at him, and surprisingly he doesn't snap back.

"Well, I thought I should look after you."

"That was unnecessary." Or at least I hope it was, for his sake more than mine. Then he finally gets up and I see his face in the light. Scratches are angled down his cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes are even more pronounced, and he winced when he stood up.

"I don't think so." Staring at him is something I can't really avoid as he's talking. What the fuck happened? I shouldn't be asking that twice within the span of sixty seconds. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Good." Relief animates John's speech. "Uhh.." He's unsure where to start, and so am I, but somebody has to say something or I think we'll both explode. "You had a rough time of it."

"Meaning?" I'm still stuck in front of my bedroom door, as if I could duck inside for cover if what he has to say is particularly bad or embarrassing. I'm starting not to remember what it's like to walk around in a state free of some kind of humiliation.

"Well, you had an attack of some form."

"You're going to have to be more specific." I'm instantly angry at both myself and John for dragging this out.

"You lost awareness for a minute and your heart stopped. I had to resuscitate you." He glances at my open shirt and then, looking down, he seems filled with shame and worry. I don't get it. He's a doctor right? Isn't he used to that? "I would have called 999 but you came around fairly quickly so I just helped you to bed and watched you for a bit."

John walks off towards the kitchen with his now empty cup, leaving me with a deepening sense of confusion. I don't know what to say, I don't know what to do. I doubt there's a proper procedure for any of this. Instantly I determine that when he says 'lost awareness' he's trying to cover up violence that must have occurred. Scratches, muscle aches, and bruising don't appear out of midair. Was there a point where my life was less complicated? Can we please go back to that?

"I'm sorry." The words are thick as they leave my mouth, but they are absolutely true. John is my flatmate and I should be smart and capable enough that he doesn't have to babysit me. More than that, he doesn't need to be here, witness to my insanity and inability to apparently cope with trauma. I'm ashamed, and furious at my obvious successive failures in the last few days.

"Don't be sorry. I'm just glad you're alright now." He smiles weakly at me.

"But you shouldn't have-"

"Shouldn't have what? I just did what had to be done."

I remember him saying the same thing last night for different reasons, and I'm instantly sick to my stomach.

"Still, I should have been more in control of the situation."

"Sherlock, you can't control everything." John laughs as he re-enters the living room. Pausing, he holds my gaze in a technique I'm sure they taught him in the army as a way to intimidate the enemy. It's not working, a sadness leaks into it and invalidates the effect. "Just please." He seems like he's begging me. "I don't want to have to do it again."

Everything in him has an added weight; he's straining under it but it's still bobbing to the surface. The remainder of my anger drains out of me and all I'm left with is pure and debilitating confusion.

Dr. John H. Watson is very upset and I have no idea why.

This is what I do to people. I come in, I make them feel terrible, and then I tend to not hear from them ever again. So why isn't he leaving? Seriously, John, pack your stuff and go. I wouldn't be insulted and I definitely wouldn't be surprised.

Let's take stock of the facts. You've known me for a few months, and I've already nearly cost you a job, gotten you a concussion, several citations, wrecked your social life, and alienated your self worth intentionally or unintentionally. No, you simply cannot, CANNOT care enough about your recent flatmate to be this upset. It doesn't make sense, so it can't be true.

"You won't." I say, though it's an empty promise it's the least I can do. However, being me I can't really leave that alone. "I don't see why you seem so upset by this though. None of this is your fault, so if it's some sense of guilt -"

"Are you being serious?" Anger is rising in his tone, but I push ahead.

"Perfectly. Why? Is it 'physician's remorse' or something?" There's really no need to be that cruel but what can I say? I get annoyed when I get this utterly lost.

"Honestly?"

I shrug, and retreat back to my room, so I can find a fresh shirt. John follows.

"Maybe, I'm upset because I thought you were going to die! Is that so hard to believe?" Gesturing wildly in the doorway, he's more flustered than I've seen him in a long time.

"Well yes, considering what I put you through."

"What? That's utterly RIDICULOUS!" He's yelling now, and I'm wondering why our overly inquisitive landlady hasn't started up the stair. It's okay though, I feel like yelling at someone and I'll settle for John.

"Is it? I ALMOST GOT YOU KILLED AND YOU BARELY KNOW ME! It would have been better for you if you let me die on the bloody floor. It's what I would have done."

His face contorts as if I've struck him. "You don't know anything." John whispers the sentence almost as if he's come to an unexpected epiphany. "You have no idea at all, do you?"

I have to admit that I haven't heard those thoughts directed at me before. I'm more used to people being angry at me for knowing too much. I suppose my face must have conveyed some of that to outside parties.

"You're my fucking friend! I couldn't just let you lie there!"

"I thought we were _colleagues_." Thank God, I've found a clean shirt. I'm a step closer to being able to get this scene behind me.

Exasperated, John steps forward quickly and grabs my arm pulling me towards him. "That was weeks ago."

"That's still what you said. Now if you will excuse me, colleague, I have to go out."

"No."

"What do you want me to say? I suppose I should thank you for not being me and actually saving me. Is that what you're waiting for?"

This is getting more and more uncomfortable, and I'm cursing myself for once again choosing to be difficult rather than deal with the rising sense of terrifying vulnerability lurking around the edges of my mind. What if I have more of these 'attacks'? What if I'm in front of Moriarity when it happens? Forget all that, I'd rather yell at the man that pulled my ass from the fire.

There's a brief moment of silence in which neither of us break eye contact, and neither show any indication of budging. We just stand there, in the centre of my room watching each other breathe, waiting for something to happen. Agonizing. That's all this is, and I just want to end it. I'm tired of sparring and getting nowhere, and I'm tired of being made painfully aware that an unnamed tension now lies between us. I swear to myself I'm going to fix this, if it's the last thing I do.

For now I shrug him off, I grab my phone, and I try to ignore the epitome of hurt plastered on the face of someone who doesn't deserve it. I try to focus on what I need to do, and pretend to not hear John screaming after me when I leave. None of that's important right now, the only thing left is the game.


	4. Walls

Days dragged by, bringing me nothing but worry and an increasing sense of dread as I noticed my flatmate becoming scarcer both mentally and physically. Out odd hours, Sherlock clearly wasn't sleeping enough to keep dark circles at bay or his wandering attention in check. There were nights when I had to ask him a question more than once to get an answer, and then usually it was with a snap or a shrug of dismissal.

More disturbing was the lack of chatting that passed between us now. Sherlock would storm in the door, throw off his coat and lay on the couch without a word. In fact, unless it was about groceries, tea, or rent we hadn't had a proper conversation in a week. I liked to think I'm not _so_ dense as to not know that he's on some kind of big case, but he hasn't said anything about it or saddled me with the usual set of tasks at this point so I don't know what the hell to think.

Was it me? Was it still all about that stupid blowjob? Had we passed some point of no return where I ceased being John and started being that annoying bloke that wouldn't shut up? Even so, that would be something I could take. What was worse was seeing his health degrade before my eyes. It's hard not to give a fuck about some subtle clumsiness, and sluggishness that he seems to be in the grip of. It's horribly out of place, and when things are out of place with Sherlock there's usually something really wrong.

I have to admit I'm still shaken from the last health crisis he had, and I may or may not be constantly waiting for him to keel over and stop breathing at any given second. I'm exhausting myself with worry and starting at every time there's a small noise. I'm also continually finding myself hovering over my flatmate when he is home, waiting for something to happen.

However, I probably could have kept on living with this state of affairs. I honestly could have, if he hadn't stumbled up the stairs tonight beaten half to death.

"What the fuck happened to you?" I'm yelling as I'm rushing to the door, irrationally afraid he's going to shatter like a piece of glass. He's limping, he has a black eye, and a split lip. Not only that, he's moving like a broken doll and what skin I can see is splotched with fresh bruises. I don't wait for him to give me an answer before I grab his arm. I wish I hadn't because now I can see how bloody and torn his hands are. How the hell did he burst two knuckles? Is all that blood his? Now I take a closer look at his jacket and collar and notice blood there too, along with a long cut down his neck.

"Nothing important." He says matter of factly, trying to shrug me off. Does he really expect me to believe that? I take him by the chin and turn his head to get a better look at his neck. Thank God, it's not deep but fuck, it was close. Sherlock fights me every step of the way, and I wonder if this is what a vet feels like, as he tries to squirm out of my grasp.

"John, I'm fine! Let me go!" Now he's getting angry, and so am I because I can't believe he's managed to do this to himself and doesn't want help. For a genius, that's pretty fucking stupid.

"I'm trying to help!" I'm too flustered and worried to say anything else, as I wonder what other injuries he's attempting to hide.

"I don't need help, I told you I'm fine!" He tries to move away again and succeeds only in dragging me with him, into the centre of the sitting room. "Could you let go of me now? I have things to do."

"I'm not letting go until you let me see what's wrong and give me an explanation." I'm trying to gain some leverage as I wrap one arm around his waist and use my body weight to kind of shove him towards the couch. He doesn't budge, even though I know he's in no condition to be fighting me.

"I don't owe you one."

"You've been disappearing for days and now someone's beaten the shit out of you and you don't owe me one?" I'm trying to hide my worry and just project my anger. Please, let it actually work. There's no way he'll take me seriously if I look like a scared puppy. "I've put up with enough of your shit, you're going to tell me!"

He seems shocked. Good. Maybe now I'll weasel the story out of him. As I try again to move him, he does go a couple of steps before stopping, and a surge of premature hope goes through me. Fuck, don't normal people _want_ to sit down after major injury?

He does seem to soften a little, so I can be grateful for that. "If you must know, I went after Moriarity and failed. I'd prefer not to discuss it further."

"Why the hell would you do that _alone_?" I thought we both learned something from last time, but no. I guess someone here is more stubborn than I give him credit for.

"Because," awkwardly, he shifts away from me and there a long pause before he continues, "you did enough last time and I think it's my turn don't you?"

What? I can't even process that right away. What the fuck is he even talking about? I think I've just crossed the threshold from angry to absolutely goddamn furious.

"For fuck's sake! I keep telling you it was nothing!" With a rise in temper comes a rise in aggressiveness, and so I leave all gentleness at the door as I try desperately to get him to just get on the bloody couch.

"It wasn't nothing, I have to get him back!" We're screaming in each other's faces, and flailing around like it's a regular routine. But I'm scaring myself, and he's scaring me with how much this appears to mean to him. All I can think of is the rather dismal chain of events this represents. Because I know what's going to happen.

He'll find Moriarty. He'll either make him pay…or he'll die.

That stark reality is not one I can accept, both as a doctor, and as his friend. I'm supposed to be looking after him, but I've really done a great job haven't I? He's killing himself over something that they should have forgotten. Why can't he let it go? What will it fucking take for him to let it go? I was supposed to be able to fix this.

"Why?" All the anger has fled from me, to be replaced by guilt. Monstrous, horrible, guilt.

Sherlock stares at me for a second like he's never really considered why, or at least that he doesn't want to admit it to anyone else. Taking advantage of the fact that I've stopped pushing him, he escapes my grip and takes a few long steps away from me towards the kitchen. He takes out his phone and toys with it.

I get mad all over again, because he's not answering with me, and because he's standing there bleeding onto the carpet and avoiding how hurt he is and how angry I am; choosing to wilfully ignore the whole thing and keep his dignity intact. This is really not the time for this.

"Well?"

He glances up at me like he's surprised that I still want an answer, but shrugs casually.

"I owe you."

It's a simple phrase, and I'm surprised at how much it manages to set me off. I close the distance between us, yelling every step of the way.

"You don't owe me! You never owed me! What will it take for you to believe me?" Oh God, the man is going to self destruct because I can't be convincing? Because I can't get a goddamn point across? Please, don't let me be that useless.

"I can't! It's just not true!" He yells it back, like it's the most obvious thing in the universe. Like I'm an idiot who won't trust that two plus two equals four. What the fuck? He's going to die. Can he not see that? He's going to die for some made up cause that I don't even fucking care about. It makes no sense, it's absolutely insane, and I cannot let him do it, no matter what it takes. I care about him way too much.

But I'm running out of options and his blatant disregard for my feelings and assertions is stretching me to the limits of a saint's patience. I don't know what to do. Oh God, I have no idea what to do.

My exasperation reaches a boiling point.

"Fine, I'll make us even." I reach out and grab him violently, pulling him into a kiss which in itself is not exactly gentle. I taste the copper of his blood, but it's still not enough as I try to force my tongue into his mouth. He's absolutely, agonizingly still, and I'm not sure whether he's morphed into a deer in the headlights or if he's getting ready to punch my face in. It lasts for a long second, but then he opens his mouth and I'm the one that's shocked. But I'm still exasperated, and fuck it, I am going to do this for everyone's sake.

I'm still kissing him with all the tenderness of an angry elephant when I find myself pushing him towards his bedroom. He moves with me, and I feel his hands awkwardly settle on my shoulders. He's clearly not comfortable, but he's going along with it anyway and that's good enough.

His back hits the wall by the doorframe with a resounding thud, and I break the kiss to move my mouth over the pulse point in his neck. I hear him start breathing heavily, as my hands push up his shirt. His body is so delicate, and I can feel the bones and muscles moving with every exhalation. My fingers try to take in every contour, and Sherlock begins to make a series of small choked sounds. I sneak a look up towards his face. His head has turned to the side, and his eyes are shut.

Oh god, it's just like at the pool. No, this is _not _going to go that way. My mouth finds his again, but my hands are on his hips now and I press myself into him. I'm hard, and surprisingly, so is he. Still awkward, he claws roughly at my chest, and suddenly I find myself undecided as to whether I should go on. Then he tugs at my collar, gripping me tight. There's no turning back now.

Using my knee, I force open his legs, and settle myself in between them. I'm still waiting for him to push me away or do something, but instead he puts his arms around me pressing his palms into my back. Taking that as some form of cue, I thrust into him hard, wanting friction and as much of it as I can get. A suppressed moan makes it out of Sherlock's lips, and it replaces the hoarse croak as the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. In the back of my mind I'm hoping this memory somehow blots all the rest out.

I thrust into him again, which turns into a rhythm. Objects clatter from the mantle to the floor and I'm sure if we had a neighbour they'd be applying their broom to the wall right about now. The thump of Sherlock's back hitting the wall, and his small breathless noises are the only sound I can hear; his fingers digging into my back the only thing I can feel. He leans his head onto my shoulder, and his face is flushed beyond belief, contrasting with his ever swelling black eye.

"Please…" He whispers into my neck, and the caress of his voice is almost enough to send me over the edge, and I have a feeling he's even closer than I am. I move one hand to the small of his back, feeling the sweat gathered there. His limbs seem to have turned to quivering stumps; he's begun to shake so I have to hold him still. I pause before thrusting up against him one more time with a violence that surprises me.

His orgasm is like an explosion in his body as every muscle tenses, and his hips jerk uncontrollably against me. He can't even suppress a loud exclamation that's a mixture of pain and pleasure as he clings to me. It's enough to bring on my own release which is the most intense I've ever felt.

I trail kisses along Sherlock's collarbone as he calms down, though he's still holding onto me like he's afraid to let go. I don't want him to, and I kiss him to punctuate the emotion, and this time it's long and slow and languid and tender. He reciprocates, and for a minute I bask in the afterglow of it.

But the moment's over too soon, and he pushes me away with some force. We're left, standing there looking ridiculous and at each other. As usual I reach to my good friend panic when I don't know what else to do. What's Sherlock going to do? Is it fine now?

I really don't think I'll be able to live with myself if he _isn't_ fine now and if I've forced myself on him for no reason other than my own vague want.

"I'm going to bed, John." Sherlock says it as if this is any other night. He retreats to his room and closes the door and all of a sudden I'm all alone with cum stained pants and a lingering feeling that this was a huge mistake.


	5. Doors

I close the bedroom door behind me, but I can barely register the sound or the feel of the knob on my fingers.

My brain...what the hell has happened to it? It's clear. Agonizingly so. Not the normal functioning efficiency, it's like it's been fed steroids and all the malformed areas have been stripped out.

My muscles are a different story. I thank the God I don't believe in that he saw fit to allow my legs to work long enough to get me in here as I collapse on the bed. Trying to control the shaking isn't helping so I resolve to lie here until it does. Of course, being temporarily bed ridden would be easier if my mind wasn't racing.

I'd be lying if I said I couldn't process what just happened. No, the what isn't the problem. It's all down to the bastard why.

So I come home bleeding and angry.

I yell at John and he yells at me.

We fuck against a wall.

...No. I definitely don't understand the logic here. All I know is that the flatmate relationship I might have had with John is utterly and completely out of the question. I have seen a few movies and watched a few insipid sitcoms in my time and I know that sex in a friendship has supposedly disastrous consequences.

Fuck.

I go to run a hand through my hair and I remember that John was right. I _have_ had the shit kicked out of me earlier tonight. My hand finds my neck which is a bloody mess, and then there's the added bonus of embarrassingly stained pants and trousers.

Getting up is hard to do so I settle on wriggling out of clothes and blindly fumbling around for pajamas I think I left somewhere on the bed yesterday and wriggling into them. All the while I continually ask myself how everything came to this. Apparently I'm too fucking disordered these days to conduct a proper flatmate to flatmate interaction or even drag myself through a goddamn case without it exploding into my face.

I start to consider that my brother may be right and how absolutely depressing that is. I'm a liability, I need to be supervised at all times, I'm a fucking mental patient. And the worst part is that I fucked up someone I actually was quite fond of, who didn't deserve any of this.

Fond of? No, that doesn't really describe it. John saved me time and again and did more for me than anyone I have ever known. Even beyond the damn pool, he actually_ lived_ with me and all of what that means. Head in the fridge? I sincerely doubt anyone else would just close the door and ask why.

I hate people, I have no friends, I don't care. But I'm still ashamed of myself for this. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Then I hear it.

There's a slight tapping on my bedroom door.

He must be about to tell me he's mortified and can't bear to see my face again so he's going to go ahead and pack now. Alright. I can deal with that.

"Sherlock? I never got...to look at your hands and face." John's voice is small and timid and...worried. Very worried.

What? When will he leave?

"If you don't take care of it, you might get a really nasty infection."

What will it take?

"If you don't want to see me, it's okay."

This isn't real. No one could possibly, _should_ possibly, care this much.

"I'll leave the antiseptic outside your door and some gauze."

Oh god, what do I do now? My stomach clenches. There are way too many emotions competing for me to pick just one. Remorse. Depression. Anger at myself for being such a twat. Others I can't name.

His footsteps begin to retreat. And I only know one thing for sure right now.

I don't want him to go.

It's still pretty damn painful but I manage to get off my bed and make it to the door, flinging it open.

"John!"

He turns around from where he's gotten to in the sitting room. There are tears in his eyes, as he smiles meekly at me.

I'm hit with a flood of unquantifiable feeling, as I take a step into the living room. I'm a mess inside and out, but I can't let him go. I just...can't.

"Can you..." I don't even know what I'm saying. My voice doesn't even sound like my own. What the fuck am I even doing? I feel colour rush to my face, and I'm praying it's indistinguishable from the swelling. I look away, shame and uncertainty forced my eyes away from his face.

Footsteps approach and stop in front of me as I look back up. John's standing there, politely distant.

"Do you want help? I know you don't exactly bandage yourself up often." He smiles again trying to keep it as light as he possible, considering the circumstances.

John's reaches down for the gauze and I can tell he's going to bury all of what just happened, but I don't think I can deal with that. Not now. Not after that.

As I watch him stand back up and start mumbling about taking care of wounds, I realize I'm actually scared. Not just nervous, but frightened.

I've never been to this area before, but I'm pretty sure that this is it, and if I pause I might make a mistake I can't fix.

I reach out both hands and catch John's so he has to cease ineffectual fidgeting.

"Stop."

"I'm sorry." He sighs, and seems to crumple under the weight of what must be the guilt he feels. "I'm so, sorry. I didn't -"

Silence hangs in the air. It's like I can't breathe all over again. I'm struggling to shut off my brain and the panic that threatens at the edge of what it is that I want right now.

"Don't." It's all I manage to get out, the moment is so thick and cloying. It's now or never and I don't want to be a coward.

I take my arms and wrap them around his waist as I draw him close and bury my face in his shoulder.

Nearly immediately the gauze falls to the floor as John's arms encircle me. He holds me closely and firmly. It's almost painful but I don't care. John's here. He's not packing. He's here.

I don't pretend to understand it but I don't care.

"It's alright, Sherlock." John whispers, his voice reassuring.

"We're going to be okay."

Clinging to those words, I hold onto John, allowing myself to for once think...

That they might be true.

* * *

Sherlock seems uneasy these days. He fidgets, he worries, and changes his mind almost instantaneously. It seems like the genius is confused and maybe a little bit lost. It's so rare I almost don't believe it's true.

I'm a doctor, not a psychologist, but I'd like to think I know the general reason.

We're sitting on the couch, and it's been a quiet night. Sherlock's hand is firmly in mine as we watch the telly. I take advantage of my new found privileges to take a long moment to examine his eyes and face as they stare ahead, wondering how the hell I got so lucky.

Suddenly his lips curve into a smile.

"What is it you find so interesting, John?"

Laughing slightly, he turns his head toward mine. And I'm sure of it now.

Sherlock Holmes is happy. And the best thing is, so am I.


End file.
